-serial killer.
And then I hit a stretch of road that was totally pitch-black. That was it. I decided that I’d rather be an alive wuss than a dead tough guy. I’d just turned back to head for Sunset Boulevard when I heard the fast slap of running feet coming up behind me. At that same moment, two white men in red do-rags and baggy jeans-the kind that have loops sewn inside the legs to hold shotguns-stepped out of the alley to my left and came toward me with deadly eyes that said anything could happen in the next sixty seconds. A strangled little scream squeaked out of my mouth as I jumped back-and almost fell into the team behind me. I could feel their hot breath on my neck, and the smell of their sweat, oily and sour, wound its way over my shoulder like a snake. The bile rose in my throat.
A heavy-looking metal pipe slid down out of the sleeve of the taller of the two men in front of me. He slapped the pipe against his thigh, stepped close enough for me to smell the cigarettes on his breath, and said in a low, tight voice, “Shut the fuck up, bitch.”
And in that second, a surge of anger burst through the fear. This cretin was telling me to shut the fuck up? I wanted to rip his stupid head off his neck. I was about to reach for my gun, but then I remembered I didn’t have it. And I noticed we were standing at the mouth of a dark alley. It wouldn’t take five seconds to pull me into it. Another five and I could easily be dead. I didn’t see any lights on in the trashed-out houses nearby, but even if anyone was home, I seriously doubted they’d be in any shape to help me. Rage gave way to reason as I considered my options.
If I’d had a wad of money on me, I could’ve hoped that they’d just take my purse and be happy with the score. But as usual, my cash on hand would barely cover one drink. Still, it was all I had to bargain with. I started to take my purse off my shoulder. Seeing my move, the other man whipped a.44 out of the pocket of his hoodie and put it to my head. As the cold steel barrel pressed against my temple, I saw my face exploding in a red mist.
A voice behind me that sounded like gravel churning in a Cuisinart snarled, “You don’t move, bitch.”
I stood frozen, my hand still at my shoulder. There was something familiar about that voice. Could it be…? If I was wrong, I’d be dead. But I had to take a chance.
